


personal space, and a lack thereof

by astroturfwars



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: dumb crushes and bus rides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:45:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astroturfwars/pseuds/astroturfwars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi repeats, trying not to sound like he’s backpedaling. He casts about for an appropriate segue into casual conversation and comes up short, settles for a neutral, “why are you sitting here.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	personal space, and a lack thereof

**Author's Note:**

> i spent a lot of time over spring break thinking about how bokuto and akaashi might've interacted when akaashi first joined the volleyball club aaaand this is what came of it.

Akaashi harbors no intention of sharing his seat on the bus to away games. He never does, and this early Tuesday afternoon is no different.

He has yet to share his seat this month. Akaashi’s on a winning streak, and the rewards are sweet: space, room to think, and the simple pleasure of being able to stretch his legs without worrying about kicking his seatmate. The grand prize is the quiet the front of the bus affords; three rows from the door, Akaashi’s only distractions are the hum of the engine and the murmur of his coach going over strategy two rows ahead. He gives himself a moment to indulge in the hush of the empty bus as he gets comfortable in his seat, because this illusion of quiet is brief at best.

Akaashi’s been seated for a good forty seconds before the chatter of the third-years filters in through the open door and drowns beneath an onslaught of familiar hooting, underscored by the heavy thump-and-scuff of sneakers on metal stairs. By now it takes Akaashi only moments to recognize what this particular cacaphony heralds; he braces himself accordingly, turning his face to the window in hopes that avoiding eye contact will let him off the hook.

It’s a futile attempt. Bokuto plops down into Akaashi’s seat without so much as an ‘is this free’, and Akaashi bites back a sigh. Or he would, if he could get enough air to fuel a sigh; Bokuto is pressed up against Akaashi from hip to knee like he has no concept of personal space, elbow buried in Akaashi’s ribs. Akaashi folds in on himself, shrugs away towards the window, and prepares to school his face into a preemptive frown. He’s learning that the proactive approach works best where Bokuto is concerned; better to get Bokuto to change seats now, with a minimum of fuss, than to let him settle in and make himself comfortable at the epicenter of Akaashi’s personal space.

“Bokuto-san,” he begins, tucking his chin against his shoulder to pin Bokuto with the full weight of his frown—and stops short. Bokuto’s giving Akaashi this bright-eyed look, grinning wide, leaning into Akaashi’s space like he’s got a thousand things he wants to say and he’s just waiting for the go-ahead.

Akaashi is halfway through his first year playing for Fukurodani. He doesn’t know everything, not yet, but he _does_ know that Bokuto’s mood is a delicate mechanism. Akaashi’s getting a feel for what sets him off, and right now the data he’s collected from prior experience is suggesting that snapping at Bokuto isn’t such a good idea.

He’s not sure why—maybe it’s because he can imagine the way Bokuto’s face will drop if Akaashi rebuffs him, or how he’ll sulk through warmups and probably give away the first five points of the game—but there it is. There’s a feeling sitting low in his stomach, reminding Akaashi that it would be nice, maybe, to keep that smile on Bokuto’s face, no matter what the reason.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi repeats, trying not to sound like he’s backpedaling. He casts about for an appropriate segue into casual conversation and comes up short, settles for a neutral, “why are you sitting here.”

Bokuto blinks at Akaashi like the answer is obvious. Akaashi’s got a feeling he knows what Bokuto’s going to say, because Bokuto puffs up, crowding Akaashi tighter against the window, and declares, “A good senpai should make sure his kouhai is ready for a big game! It’s my duty to you, Akaashi!”

Akaashi’s cheeks go hot—half out of embarrassment that Bokuto’s just shouted his responsibility for the entire team to hear, and half out of a pleased satisfaction to which he will never admit. He knows Bokuto well enough to tell with near certainty that although Bokuto’s saying kouhai like he's talking about every one of the first-years on the team, he means Akaashi especially. And if that makes Akaashi preen just the slightest bit, well. He can control his face well enough that it doesn’t show.

“Alright,” Akaashi says. He twists to give himself a bit of breathing room, dragging his knee down the solid length of Bokuto’s thigh as he shifts, and convinces himself the resulting blush rising on his cheeks is well worth the extra few inches of space.

Bokuto doesn’t seem to mind the touch. He doesn’t seem to mind the way Akaashi favors him with short answers, the way they wind up leaning against each other every time the bus takes a corner, the way Akaashi’s eyes linger on his face just a moment too long when he smiles. Akaashi tries not to stare; he should be focusing on the game instead of being distracted by Bokuto’s proximity, but keeping perspective when Bokuto’s talking to him like he’s the only person on the bus is no easy task. All Akaashi can see is Bokuto, looming large in his vision, waxing poetic about how well he thinks Akaashi’s going to play like he’s never had even a moment of doubt.

It’s almost overwhelming, really—the openness of Bokuto’s gaze, the frankness of his speech, the press of his bulk against Akaashi’s side—but Akaashi finds himself appreciating Bokuto’s attention. And though he spends half the ride trying to surreptitiously cool his face against the window, Akaashi steps off the bus feeling almost as sure of himself as Bokuto is of him.

 

—-

 

Hours later Akaashi toes his bag under the seat in front of him and leans against the wall of the bus, exhausted, damp with sweat and riding high on victory. He’d played well by anyone’s standards, and he’s feeling good enough to allow himself a smile that he stows away in the smudged reflection of the window.

He’s still turned toward the window, trying to school his face into a less distinctly satisfied expression, when he sees a blurry Bokuto in mirrored miniature, bounding up the bus steps and whooping. Akaashi turns toward him out of instinct, and Bokuto catches Akaashi’s smile before he can will it away.

“Akaashi!” Bokuto chirps, dropping his bag and kicking it out of the aisle. The seat cushion hisses in protest when he drops down onto it, and Akaashi resists making a similar noise as Bokuto wedges him into the corner again. “How about that, huh? Did you see that straight I hit match point?”

Akaashi manages not to roll his eyes. Of course he remembers; he was the one who’d set the ball. He also, coincidentally, remembers Bokuto taking a wild swing at that set as it crossed his shoulder, hitting it so close to the sideline that Akaashi had been sure they’d lost the point. “Wasn’t that a fluke?”

“Yeah, but I wanna try hitting that for real! Imagine it—the block would set up cross, but I’d be able to smash it down the line!” Bokuto takes a swing at an imaginary set; Akaashi presses himself against the window to avoid an elbow to the forehead. He feels all the more cornered for it when Bokuto leans toward him, claps him on the shoulder, and says, “I just need someone to practice with me!”

“I’m sure one of the upperclassmen would be glad to help you,” Akaashi says. He tries not to mind Bokuto’s touch, though his hand weighs heavy where it lingers, thumb pressed against the line of Akaashi’s collarbone through his jersey. Akaashi’s seen Bokuto palm volleyballs during practice, but the size and strength of Bokuto’s hand seem magnified when it tightens to the bony curve of Akaashi’s shoulder, squeezing for emphasis.

“I want you to practice with me!”

“What,” Akaashi says, nonplussed.

“Practice with me!” Bokuto repeats. He crooks one leg up underneath himself and kneels on the seat, grabbing Akaashi’s other shoulder. “You’re going to be our regular setter soon, and I want work on my straight shots with you!”

Akaashi hopes the bus is dark enough that Bokuto can’t see the color rising in his cheeks. It isn’t unlike Bokuto to be forthcoming with praise, but the way he’s looking at Akaashi now, eager and earnest, makes Akaashi’s stomach go tight with something like pre-game nerves. He finds himself wanting to say yes to Bokuto’s smile and the promise of partnership it holds, wanting to put his trust in the broad hands settled warm on his shoulders. When he scans Bokuto’s face he sees determination and confidence in spades, and that isn’t something Akaashi wants to resist.

“Alright, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, and bites down on the inside of his lip to quell the beginning of a smile.


End file.
